nowhere to here

50 flash fictions

by

francis booth

© 2011 by Francis Booth.

No Tears

When he died she felt nothing, not even emptiness. No

pain, no anger, no grief, nothing. She couldn’t eat,

couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even think. But above all, she

couldn’t cry. She kept looking in the mirror to see if any

tears would come, but no tears came. Eventually, in

the darkness, she thought she saw a door, and she

began to think that crying would unlock the door and

let the feelings in. So she had a tear tattooed on her

cheek, just below her left eye so that every time she

looked in the mirror it would remind her that she

needed to cry.

Zero Hour

11:59:00 the big red LEDs 11:59:01 of the clock

overhead 11:59:02 glow and flicker softly 11:59:03 as

you try to focus 11:59:04 on what’s around you 11:59:05

the red dots swim 11:59:06 and dance slowly 11:59:07 in

front of your eyes 11:59:08 you can hear a slight hum

11:59:09 in the distance 11:59:10 you blink repeatedly

11:59:11 trying to see where you are 11:59:12 but all you

can see 11:59:13 are the patterns 11:59:14 of the red

dots 11:59:15 dancing in front of 11:59:16 and above

your frazzled eyes 11:59:17 you try to stand 11:59:18 but

your legs won’t respond 11:59:19 you try to push

yourself 11:59:20 up off the floor 11:59:21 but there is no

strength 11:59:22 in your limp arms 11:59:23 you feel the

floor 11:59:24 around you 11:59:25 with your fingertips

11:59:26 but they feel numb 11:59:27 and don’t even

feel the cold 11:59:28 though you are shivering 11:59:29

and frozen through 11:59:30 as you lean forwards

11:59:31 then backwards 11:59:32 and sideways

11:59:33 trying to feel something 11:59:34 but there is

nothing to touch 11:59:35 or feel within reach 11:59:36

your eyes slowly start 11:59:37 to clear and focus

11:59:38 and you strain to see 11:59:39 something,

anything 11:59:40 in the red misty glow 11:59:41 the

LEDs give out 11:59:42 flashing every second 11:59:43

but you cannot make out 11:59:44 even the slightest

detail 11:59:45 there seem to be no walls 11:59:46 no

end to the darkness 11:59:47 you drag yourself 11:59:48

across the floor 11:59:49 towards the red lights 11:59:50

in front of you 11:59:51 surely the clock 11:59:52 must be

attached 11:59:53 to a wall 11:59:54 to help you stand

11:59:55 suddenly it dawns on you 11:59:56 and you

realise 11:59:57 you need to know 11:59:58 is this a 12

hour clock 11:59:59 or 24 hour? 00:00:00

Doll’s House

You would probably call it a doll’s house but it’s not for

putting dolls in. Not normal dolls anyway. It’s an exact

replica of our own house and I made it myself,

including the furniture. Mum and dad were really proud

of me. They liked the little figures I made of them too

but that’s because they didn’t know what I was going

to use them for. The figures aren’t very accurate but

they don’t have to be. It doesn’t matter what they look

like as long as you use pieces of their actual clothes,

their hair, their nails and their own blood. First I got the

tiny penknife and put it in mum’s doll’s hand. I made

her stab dad’s figure seven times in the chest and

dabbed on a bit of the blood I got from when he

stepped on the drawing pin I left on the bathroom

floor. Then I put the mum doll in the model bath that I’d

filled with warm water and slit her wrists with the

penknife. You have to do it up the arm, not across the

wrist – a lot of people get that wrong – and then put

the arms in the warm water so the blood doesn’t clot. I

got her blood from one of her tampons. When the

police come I can tell them that dad was having an

affair with mum’s sister and that will explain everything

as far as they’re concerned. They’ll be very

sympathetic with me and they won’t send me to live

with my aunt. I’ll call 999 as soon as the little house has

finished burning.

Boy Meets Girl

Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl thinks boy is

a bit weird. Boy asks girl out. Girl refuses. Boy becomes

obsessed. Boy starts to stalk girl. Girl tells boy to leave

her alone. Boy promises he will if girl goes out on one

date with him. Girl agrees to one date only. Boy drugs

girl on date. Girl wakes up next morning naked and

tied to bed. Boy is crouched in corner, sobbing. Girl tries

to scream but boy has stuffed knickers in her mouth.

Boy keeps saying sorry, sorry. Girl struggles and tugs but

ropes at hands and feet too tight. Boy says please

forgive me. Girl sees all her online photos on boy’s

bedroom wall. Boy says even if girl forgives him he

could never forgive himself. Girl sees empty pill bottles

on floor next to boy. Girl shakes her head violently. Boy

whispers ‘forgive me’ one last time as he slips into

unconsciousness. Girl thinks it’ll be OK, someone will

come. But boy had no friends and no one will come.

The Dead Guy

I wish the dead guy would move out. He’s been here

for weeks and he behaves as if he owns the place. He

sits on my sofa, watches my TV, sleeps in my bed. Even

if I’m already sitting on the sofa he just sits on me –

being dead he doesn’t take up any physical space

and just passes straight through me. He obviously can’t

see me. To be fair, he’s very tidy and doesn’t make

much mess but I’d really like to have the place to

myself again. And the worst time is when he brings his

dead friends round for parties. They all pass through me

as if I’m not there and it’s really disturbing to see so

many dead people in one place. He has a dead

girlfriend who’s come home with him a few times but

last time she came she said she wouldn’t ever come

back; she said there was something spooky about the

place, like it was haunted. That was the time she

looked me straight in the eye and shivered, as if she’d

seen a ghost.

Funicular

When I was little we used to go on holiday to a seaside

town with a cliff railway. It had two cars, like little old

railway carriages, that slowly clicked and clacked their

way up and down the tracks on the side of the steep

cliff behind the beach. The two carriages were linked

by a rope so that the one going down was always

pulling the other one up and they passed in the middle.

I was thinking that this is a good description of our

relationship. The only way either of us can climb up the

emotional tracks of our lives is to pull the other one

down. You’re only happy when I’m miserable – when

you’ve made me miserable, and I’m the same with

you. Occasionally we meet in the middle when we’re

both neither happy nor unhappy, but only briefly and it

never lasts. One of us will be heading up and the other

down. We’re roped together and stuck on the same

old tracks, always going in opposite directions. We

can’t jump the tracks and if we cut the rope we’d both

crash to the bottom and stay there. The cars on the cliff

railway were already old when I was a child; I hope to

God we’re not stuck with each other that long.

Flight Risk

“Your Honour, the prosecution asks for remand. The

accused has committed a series of appalling crimes,

sickening acts of unspeakable cruelty and must be

considered a most serious danger to the public. He

cannot be allowed to remain at large while awaiting

trial.”

“Your Honour, the defence submits that my client has

not been convicted of any crime and must obviously

be considered innocent until and unless the allegations

are proven. We ask that the defendant be released

pending trial.”

“ Your Honour, the accused has shown no remorse for

these terrible crimes…”

“Because he denies responsibility for them…”

“… and in addition to the serious danger to the public,

we believe there is a very real flight risk.”

“There is absolutely no flight risk here your Honour. My

client has strong ties to the area and is a very public

figure who is widely recognised.”

“Very well. Taking account of both sides’ submissions

and the apparent flight risk, the decision of the court is

that the prisoner will be kept under house arrest and

monitored by an electronic tag which will confine him

to his own house and garden. Take him away.”

A little later, standing in his garden he looks upwards

and closes his eyes. Opening his wings he floats slowly

upwards. As long as he stays directly above his own

garden the tag will let him fly as high as he likes. He can

even go all the way back up to heaven if he wants.

Under the Clock

Where are you? . . . . . I’m here . . . . . Under the clock

like we said . . . . . No I’m right here under the clock . . . .

. That’s where I am too . . . . . The big clock . . . . . There’s

only one clock . . . . . I can’t see you either . . . . . What

are you wearing? . . . . . I can’t see one of those . . . . .

I’m in a blue coat . . . . . No? . . . . . Well, wave your arm

in the air . . . . . It doesn’t matter if you look stupid . . . . .

No I can’t . . . . . OK, I’ll wave . . . . . Anything? . . . . .

Well, can you see the clock? . . . . . I’m right under it too

. . . . . Just move a bit so you can see the hands of the

clock . . . . . What time does it say? . . . . . 11:30? . . . . .

Well it’s 12:00 here, you’re half an hour early. Go have

a coffee for half an hour and when you come back I’ll

be here.

The White Room

One morning there was a white door at the end of the

first floor landing. It wasn’t there before. Obviously I

thought I was dreaming and went into the bathroom to

look at myself in the mirror; I remembered reading that

you never see your own face in a mirror in a dream,

because the dream is already a kind of mirror. Anyway,

I soon realised that I wasn’t dreaming and walked up

to the door. It was different to the other doors in the

house, which are all stripped pine – I had them done

when I moved in. The new door was just plain, matt

white like something you might see in a trendy, minimal

architect’s office. There was no handle that I could see

so I pushed it gently and there was a slight clicking

sound as it sprang softly ajar. I put a hand on the inside

of the door and pulled it gently towards me. It seemed

to be solid and very heavy but it opened easily; smooth

and silent. Behind the door was a room – a big white

cube of a room, like a modern art gallery but without

any pictures. The walls, ceiling and floor are all plain

white there are no features like skirting boards or

cornices. It has no windows or lighting but it’s always

perfectly light, even a bit too bright if anything, and it’s

always just the right temperature. The room seems to

be about a 3 metre cube, which is of course impossible

because it should stick out 3 metres at the front of the

house, above the front door. As you can imagine, the

second thing I did after looking into the room was to go

outside, still in my dressing gown, and look up, but there

were no new protuberances visible from outside. At first

I didn’t dare go inside the room. I shut the door again

and it closed very tightly with a tiny whoosh like those

American fridge/freezers with drawers that have airtight

seals. I didn’t know what else to do so I just got dressed

and went to work as if nothing had happened, thinking

it might be gone when I got home. But it wasn’t. In the

evening I tried to forget about it and I didn’t open the

door again. It was hard to sleep and I left the TV in the

bedroom on all night in case there were any strange

noises. The next day was a Saturday and I had the day

to myself so I decided to go into the room to explore.

At first I just put one foot through the door and waited,

but nothing happened so after a while I stepped in and

stood just inside the door. Still nothing happened so I

walked carefully around the edges, just touching the

smooth walls. There was no sound inside the room, not

even the noise of my shoes on the bare floor. Then I

thought, well if you’ve got an extra room you might as

well use it. I don’t have enough furniture to fill even the

rooms I had before, as I moved here from a small flat,

let alone any to spare, but I had a folding bed that I

had used to put people up in the flat so I put it in the

white room and opened it up. It looked very small by

itself and the room looked even more bare than when

it was empty, but I thought I could furnish it properly

sometime later. I shut the door and tried again to forget

about my new room. On Sunday morning I opened my

new door as soon as I got up, feeling quite excited

now. The bed was gone, the white room was empty

again. Since then I’ve tried putting several objects in

there but they all disappear as soon as the door shuts.

Luckily I had never closed the door while I was inside,

and now I prop it open very securely before I go in. You

might be wondering why I go in there at all, and all I

can say is that I feel calm in the room, secure and safe

as if everything is going to be all right, as if nothing can

hurt me while I’m inside. It’s a lovely feeling. Obviously I

haven’t told anyone else about the room, because it

sounds crazy but, just after the room appeared a friend

came round with a bottle wanting to talk about a big

relationship break - up. I thought I would demonstrate

the room rather than talk about it. You’ve probably

already guessed what happened: when my friend

came round the door wasn’t there, and it has always

disappeared whenever anyone else is in the house. So I

knew it had been put there especially for me, and that

it must have a purpose but I couldn’t see what it could

be. Then I got it. Just before the room appeared I had

been having dizzy spells and fainting for no apparent

reason. Eventually it got so bad that I couldn’t pretend

it wasn’t happening anymore and I went to the doctor,

who sent me to the hospital for tests. I got the bad

news almost straight away. Apparently there’s no cure

and no treatment. I’m going to get rapidly worse and

then I could hang on for years in pain, confusion and

indignity or just go out like a light. They say it’s

impossible to tell. But I always feel much better and

more hopeful in the white room and now I know that,

when I’m ready, all I have to do is close the door gently

behind me.

Happiness

There was a time when all I wanted was to be happy,

just to get to a point of being happy about my life,

about myself. It wasn’t about having more things, more

money, more friends; I knew that wouldn’t make me

happier. I knew happiness wasn’t about having more

but about being happy with what you’ve got. But I

couldn’t see the way to get to it, didn’t even know

which direction to go in. There are no maps to

happiness. The I saw on a t - shirt: the Buddha said there

is no way to happiness, happiness is the way. For a

while I thought this was wonderful, this was the answer.

But then I realised it didn’t help. How do you know

which way to take if you don’t have a destination to

aim for? It’s like waiting at a bus stop trying to get

home but but you can’t remember where you live and

the buses don’t say where they’re going. So here I am,

still, waiting in the cold and dark for a bus that says

happiness but thinking that the last one has already

gone.

The Tontine

The first of us went just a few months after we signed

the contract and the second died a couple of years

later. It had started with five of us, old friends, all retired

and living alone with no children; or at least none we

cared about. We had been talking about who to leave

our money to. It started as a bit of a joke but then we

found out there was indeed a kind of legacy

agreement where a group of people leave their

money to a fund called a tontine. No one can touch

the fund until the last but one member of the syndicate

dies, and then the last survivor inherits everything. For

years there were just the three of us until one more

died. This changed everything. The third of us had

unexpectedly inherited a very large amount of money

from an almost unknown relative a few years after we

had entered into the agreement, and had become

the wealthiest of us by far. Up to this point the tontine

was hardly worth talking about; none of us had much

money to leave to the fund. But now there was a

fortune suddenly waiting for whichever one of the

remaining two lasted the longest. By this time we were

both living in the nursing home; we had rooms next to

each other but we never spoke. We had already come

to hate each other, and spent all our time hoping the

other would die. But I did more than just hope. For

months I’ve been exaggerating my condition; I

stopped walking a while ago and now they do

everything for me. I haven’t left my room for weeks and

they think I’m bedridden. When they find the body

they’ll assume it was natural causes, just old age taking

another victim. I’ll inherit everything. Of course I won’t

have much to spend it on; I can’t ever leave my room

again or even get out of bed in case they get

suspicious. But it’s the winning that counts.

Skeletons

They say everyone has skeletons in their cupboard but I

keep mine in drawers. To keep them in a cupboard

you’d have to assemble them like they do for medical

schools – drill holes in the bones, and fasten them

together with wires, then hang them from a special

frame, which would probably be too big to fit even in a

big wardrobe. I don’t have the skill or the tools to do

this and frankly I don’t have the patience either. I got

the drawer idea from one of those cold case TV

programmes where they lay the bones out on a table

all in the right places. I thought the skeleton looked

really elegant arranged like that. I found a huge 1930s

plan chest in an antique shop in Islington that looked

perfect, though it was too big to go upstairs so I had to

put it in the garage; I put extra padlocks on the door

and boarded up the window. The drawers aren’t deep

enough to take the skulls, even with the jaws removed,

so I put those on the top shelf of the wardrobe. I know

which is which, so when I open a drawer to look at one

of the skeletons I can put the right skull in the right

place. The iliac bones in the pelvis are a bit deep too,

and the drawers scrape them so I have to be very

careful opening and shutting the drawers. There are

five drawers in the chest and only four skeletons so far

but the fifth one should be ready in a year or so and I

can dig it out of the back garden. It will be nice to

have all the drawers full. And then after that I’ll have to

try to find another chest to put the rest in.

The Edge

You walk slowly to the edge and start to look down.

Immediately feeling dizzy you pull yourself sharply back

and look straight ahead, your arms stretched out for

balance as you try to catch your breath. Cautiously

you bend your head downwards, while keeping your

body upright and your arms out. Your eyes gradually

focus on the scene below. You close your eyes and

imagine, with the breeze blowing gently on your face,

what it would feel like to fall and float freely, hovering in

the air like a seagull riding a warm up draught,

apparently motionless. Your eyes still closed and your

arms still stretched out, a smile crosses your face as you

lean forward into the empty air.

The Girl on the Stairs

There’s a girl on the stairs. I see her every time I go up or

down; I don’t know if she can see me. She looks like

one of those adolescent girls in a Southern gothic novel

of the 30s: all corn - coloured hair, hand - me - down

gingham dress and no shoes, that treats the negro

servant like a big sister. Awkward and uncomfortable in

her pubescent body. I think if she were alive she would

be in her nineties.

New Skin

The new skin didn’t fit as well as she had hoped. Bits of

it were so tight they were almost translucent while

others were wrinkly and saggy. The face looked normal

enough in the mirror but then on the arms she saw

something she thought she would never see again:

freckles. She thought the technology had improved so

that they could eliminate the imperfections in the

process that caused the freckles. And freckles meant –

she ripped open the box and pulled out the wig – oh,

no not that. It was hard enough to pass yourself off as

human without having ginger hair; even the dimmest

humans would be able to tell that you weren’t really

one of them.

Remember My Name

I’m still trying really hard to remember my name but

the harder I try the more distant it seems to get. It’s like

trying to get at something trapped under the sofa but

every time you touch it with your fingers you just push it

further under and you can’t quite get a grip on it. At

first people were very kind and tried to help me

remember but now they mostly ignore me. I think I’m a

bit of an embarrassment and they don’t really know

what to do with me. It’s as if people need to know the

name of something before they know how to deal with

it. Like when someone is really sick but somehow if they

know the name of the disease they can cope with it.

It’s as if nothing really exists without a name. I wish

someone would read me a list of all the possible names

and I’m sure I’d recognise one of them. I know my

name isn’t the same as any of the people I’ve met

here. If I could just remember my name I’m convinced

it would open the door to all the other memories. I feel

like the past is locked in a dark room with a big heavy

door and my name is the key. If I could open the door

and get inside I would fling open the curtains and let

the light in. There would be boxes stacked high that I

could open and in the boxes all the memories would

be individually wrapped in tissue paper. It would be so

wonderful to sit on the floor in the middle of the room

surrounded by the open boxes, carefully unwrapping

each memory one by one. I’d be like a little child

opening presents, clapping my hands in glee as the

memories appeared, all shiny and new as if I had never

seen them before. But without a name to call myself

the door will stay locked, the room will stay dark and

the boxes will keep gathering dust, maybe forever. I

obviously wasn’t anybody famous or someone would

have recognised me by now. And I obviously wasn’t

missed or someone would have come looking. So

maybe there is no room, no boxes, no memories.

Maybe I have no name and so I don’t really exist.

Right and Wrong

They keep trying to tell me that murder is wrong but

they can’t really explain why. It seems really important

to them that they can make me understand the

difference between right and wrong. They say “do unto

others as you would have them do unto you” but I’m

much stronger than most people so they won’t do

anything unto me. And if there is someone stronger

than me who does do unto me that’s my problem not

theirs. They say “you can’t just go around killing

people” but I’ve been going round killing people for

years – it’s easy if you’re strong enough. And I mean

strong in the head as well as in the arms. Most people

are weak in the head, they don’t have the willpower to

take what they want. It’s not because they “know right

from wrong”, it’s because they’re weak. “Wrong” is just

what weak people call what strong people do. They

say “God will punish you” but if I ask how they say “in

the next life”. That’s just weak - people talk. There is no

next life, it’s just something made up by weak people.

They say Jesus said “turn the other cheek” and “the

meek shall inherit the earth”. Weak. I like the Old

Testament better. The God in there gets really mad and

threatens all kinds of bad things like plagues and stuff

but even he isn’t strong enough to actually do it. When

you get earthquakes and hurricanes people say it’s

God’s punishment but it isn’t. It’s just that nature is really

strong compared to humans. You can’t beat nature

when it really gets going. It’s got nothing to do with any

God. In the end they always say “ the state is stronger

than the individual” so they can do what they want to

me, but that’s just what I’ve been saying all along.

The Island

The ship is getting closer and it looks as though it is

heading for the Island. Everyone has come out to

watch. It’s almost impossible to land here; the wind and

the tides will keep pulling the ship away and even if a

ship can get close the rocks are treacherous. Of the

very few ships we have ever seen, none has ever made

it safely to shore. We have had shipwrecks and bodies

left on the rocks as the tide went out but nothing living

has ever reached us, not even a ship’s rat. We were the

last ones. The island is a legend among seamen; they

call it the Island of Eternity. It is said that no one who

lives here will ever grow old or die. We ourselves came

because of the legend. Not that we believed it, but we

had come across the map in strange circumstances

and we thought there must be something of value on

the island: gold, spices, slaves, exotic animals perhaps.

There was much discussion about what we would find

during the long, terrible months at sea. We had been

lost, becalmed and beaten by worse storms than any

of us had ever endured, but eventually we believed we

had found the Island. At first we could not find any way

to get safely to shore but by this time we had no water

or fresh food left so there was no question of turning

back. After several days we found a rocky piece of

land jutting out into the sea and a pattern of tides that

would bring us up to it. The plan was to deliberately

ground the ship on the rocks and climb onto them. We

would then tie up the ship so that we could repair it

later using wood from the abundant trees on the

apparently uninhabited Island. We all got ashore safely

but we had misjudged the tides; the ship was smashed

and we were marooned. Now it looks as if finally

another ship may be about to do the same; it is

heading for the same rocks on the same tide. We have

all begun to pray it will land and all aboard will be safe.

Ships are supposed to bring diseases to unspoilt

territories. The crew of the new ship, even the rats,

might be carrying all kinds of viruses and bacteria

unknown to the Island. They may finally allow us to

catch some fatal disease and die, after the hundreds

of years we have been here.

Aftermath

It’s completely dark here now, the last of the lights went

out a while ago. No one knows how long we’ve been

down here; it’s hard to keep track when there’s no way

to measure the time. But it’s been long enough to

make us forget what things were like before. We don’t

even talk to each other anymore. There’s nothing left

to talk about, nothing to say that hasn’t been said too

many times, nothing to think that hasn’t been thought

over and over. Nothing left to hope for. No future to

look forward to and the past almost completely

forgotten. Sometimes I used to think about my children

and what it would have been like to see them grow up,

but I can’t even remember their names now. I wrote

them down once in case I forgot but I don’t know

where I wrote them and in any case it’s too dark to

read now. At least those of us who are left won’t have

to watch each other grow old and die. For all I know

the others are already dead.

The Price of Fame

He was the greatest musical prodigy anyone had ever

heard. He started playing the violin at the age of three

and by the age of six he was giving public recitals. He

was accepted at the country’s top music school at

eleven and graduated at fourteen. His technique was

dazzling, fantastic; nothing was too difficult for him to

play on sight. The problem was that everyone said he

played with no emotion or passion. He couldn’t move

people with his playing, only amaze them. By the end

of his teens he had entered all the major international

competitions but won none of them. He was always in

the finals but the cool precision of his playing could

never move the judges or the audience; technique

alone was not enough, however brilliant. By the age of

nineteen he was no longer a child prodigy, just another

struggling musician in a tough, competitive world. As

an adult no one was interested in him. After coming

third in the last remaining international competition he

went out by himself in the strange city to get drunk. He

had never had any real friends – prodigies like him

never do – but he had never felt more alone than he

did now. Getting girls, and their mothers, had been

easy when he was young and famous, but even that

was drying up now. He got talking to a pretty girl in a

bar and told her how he would do anything, anything

at all to be able to move people with his playing. As he

got drunker and louder the small old man in the corner

stared at him with what seemed like a friendly smile

and that was the last thing he remembered. The next

morning he woke up in a pile of rubbish sacks in a

narrow alleyway. He struggled to climb out of the

slippery black sacks but kept pulling them over on top

of himself. As one of the sacks ripped open he saw the

corner of what looked like an old music manuscript. He

grabbed it with one hand as he scrabbled over the

bags with the other and finally managed to stand up.

Back at the hotel, after a long shower and a lot of

coffee, he looked at the manuscript. It seemed to be a

piece for solo violin but it had no title or composer’s

name. He got out his violin and started to play it. From

the first few bars he felt a wave of euphoria seeping

through his whole body that would not stop until long

after he had put the violin down. He assumed this

feeling was just due to his shattered and still-drunken

state, and went to the airport with the manuscript in his

suitcase. Back at home he played it to some fellow

musicians; they were all as moved as he had been.

Some smiled, some wept, others closed their eyes or

held their breath, motionless. He played it at a half-full

recital and it had the same rapturous effect on

everyone. The recording became the biggest classical

hit of all time and he was invited to play all over the

world for increasingly large fees. It was always the

same: he played dazzlingly difficult show pieces to

polite applause and then he played from the

manuscript and the audience melted in front of him,

loving him, adoring him. Especially the women, who

queued outside his dressing rooms and hotel rooms,

willing to give him everything. But the strangest thing

was that he had to play the piece with the manuscript

in front of him. Obviously he had memorised it at first

sight as he always did, but if he played it from memory

it had no emotional effect at all; it was just a nice piece

of music played in his usual cold, dispassionate style. He

guarded the manuscript as closely as his rare and

priceless Guarneri violin and kept both in a bank vault

whenever he was not playing. As he got richer he

played fewer and fewer concerts, which made him

even more in demand. Then one evening, ten years to

the day after he had found the manuscript a knock

came on his hotel room door after another triumphant

concert. Expecting another adoring and submissive

female fan he opened the door. Normally, if they were

attractive enough, he would let them in and play to

them from the manuscript, after which they would do

anything he wanted for as long as he wanted it. But this

time it wasn’t a woman, it was a small, kindly-looking

old man. “May I come in?” The old man walked in

politely but without waiting for a reply. “What do you

want?” “You don’t remember me? It was exactly ten

years ago that I lent you the manuscript. We made a

bargain and I have come to take it back as we

agreed.” “A bargain? I never made any bargain.” “Did

you think all this wealth and fame had come without a

price? All the money, the respect, all the women?

Every rich and famous person has made a bargain with

me, and they all have to pay the price. You said you

would do anything and now it is time to return the

manuscript and pay the interest on what you

borrowed.” Still smiling kindly, the old man took the

manuscript from its stand, rolled it carefully and walked

towards the open door while the violinist stood, frozen,

in the middle of the room. Then, just as the old man was

closing the door behind him, he leapt across the room

and grabbed the corner of the manuscript just as he

had originally grabbed it from the rubbish sack. The

door shut tightly and the violinist screamed as the

severed fingers of his left hand fell to the floor on the

other side.

No Escape

Waking – shaking – recovering – remembering –

realising – panicking – screaming – yelling – pulling –

tugging – stretching – scratching – forcing – squeezing –

succeeding – breaking – freeing – escaping – leaving –

fleeing – running – pounding – panting – racing –

gasping – approaching – slowing – looking – checking –

watching – turning – accelerating – sprinting – streaking

– splashing – stopping – crouching – waiting – listening –

starting – appearing – seeing – jumping – springing –

climbing – reaching – scrabbling – scrambling –

kneeling – rising – standing – moving – streaking –

ducking – avoiding – leaping – dropping – falling –

landing – rolling – rising – reeling – feeling – limping –

hopping – hurting – wheezing – stumbling – bleeding –

choking – slumping – drifting – fading – flatlining –

finished.

Too Much

“Too much?”

“Bit over the top, maybe”

“Really?”

“Well, you did ask”

“You think I should dial it back a bit?”

“Just a bit”

“A bit or a lot?”

“Well . . .”

“OK, I’ll tone it down but I don’t want to lose the big

impact”

“There’s no danger of that”

“I mean, this is no time for subtlety”

“No one would ever accuse you of being subtle”

“What do you mean?”

“You know”

“I don’t know”

“Well you do have a bit of a reputation”

“For what?”

“You know what”

“I don’t know what”

“Well, not for subtlety anyway”

“For what, then”

“Let’s say, just for being you”

“Well, who else could I be?”

“Anyone you like”

“If I can be anyone I like I don’t know whether to be

Genghis Khan or Diana Dors”

“See what I mean?”

The Body

I don’t know what to do with the body. It’s been in the

freezer for days now; I managed to get it in before rigor

set in but I don’t know if I can get it out again now that

it’s frozen solid. I think rigor wears off after a while so it

wouldn’t be stiff now if it wasn’t frozen. I could switch

the freezer off and let it thaw out – there no food in

there to spoil; I had to throw it all out to get the body in.

I managed to eat quite a bit of the food before it went

off but I still had to throw a lot away. Even if I could get

the body out it would probably start to rot pretty

quickly, so I couldn’t just leave it in the kitchen or one of

the neighbours might smell it. I might be able to get it

down the stairs and into the boot of the car but only by

grabbing it around the chest, under the arms, and

bumping it all the way down the stairs. I’d have to do it

in the middle of the night and try not to make too

much noise but even then someone would be bound

to hear something, though no one ever looks out of the

windows or reports anything to the police around here.

But even if I could get it into the boot of the car, then

what would I do with it? Anyway, I think there are CCTV

cameras in the car park.

And They Said

And they said trust us you can trust us tell us everything

about yourself tell us all your secrets all your private

thoughts your most intimate thoughts and fears your

hates and hopes your dreams and plans your complete

family history give us all your records your mother’s

maiden name your date of birth two copies of a recent

photograph but don’t smile or show your teeth proof of

your address two forms of proof of your address your

credit rating your payment history your call records your

fingerprints your DNA your tissue type and blood group

your whereabouts on the night of the 13th your alibi

corroborated by two independent witnesses your PIN

your ID your password verify your password start date

and end date security number security question what is

your favourite food what was the name of your first pet

it’s OK to tell us you can trust us we’re pretty decent

kinds of guys and this is all for your own protection you

have done nothing wrong and you have nothing to be

afraid of. And they said trust us you can trust us we are

here to help you please stay in the queue your call is

important to us so so important your call is being

recorded for quality assurance purposes to ensure the

excellence of our service we are committed to

excellent service you will be answered by the first

available operator though the volume of calls is very

high at this time of day hello I’m Mary I’m here to help

you but first I need to ask you some security questions I

am here to help but not with that Data Protection Act

current legislation is your husband there I don’t make

the rules but someone will call you back later what you

have to do is what you need to do is I can’t authorise

that change do you still have the receipt for that

transaction and the transaction number and the

authorisation code who did you speak to when you

called can you remember the name of the person I

don’t have a record of that we don’t seem to have

received your correspondence on that matter I’m

afraid I can’t help with that but this is all for your own

protection you’ve done nothing wrong and you have

nothing to be afraid of. And they said trust us you can

trust us we are here for your safety and security wait in

line stand in a line wait behind the yellow line for a

queue round the barriers round and round and out of

the door take off your coat take off your jacket take of

your shoes take off your belt empty your pockets into

the little box 100ml maximum transparent bag the right

size of bag only nothing sharp or liquid or cream or gel

proof of identity proof of age proof of ID photo ID proof

of intent stop and search random checks through the

DVLA the PNC the PND the ID database 47 separate

pieces of information may be shared with security

agencies of other countries border controls access

controls iris recognition fingerprint reader stress detector

lie detector number plate recognition cell phone

triangulation GPS tracking this call is being monitored

you are on CCTV your journey is being monitored your

thoughts are being monitored but this is all for your own

personal safety and security you have done nothing

wrong and you have nothing to be afraid of. And they

said trust us you can trust us we are only concerned

with your health and wellbeing the planet your lifestyle

your personal private lifestyle but we are concerned

about your weight obesity leads to heart attacks

strokes diabetes hepatitis meningitis cancer is a lifestyle

choice don’t smoke give up smoking and alcohol don’t

drink more than 14 units though red wine is OK we think

but don’t drink while pregnant or driving or drive an

SUV while on the mobile phone don’t leave your TV on

standby or your phone on charge take plenty of

exercise 10,000 steps 20 minutes raise your heart rate

lower your cholesterol don’t take drugs cannabis is 15

times stronger 5 portions of fruit and vegetables

organically grown not flown but local no plastic bags

biodegradable only recycle cycle to work wear bright

colours stop at red lights no speeding on the speed

bumps traffic calming no calm in the age of road rage

don’t park here use public transport paid for by PFI best

value for you the taxpayer you the citizen it’s your

parliament your government tough of course it’s illegal

to protest outside your own parliament but this is only

for your own safety and protection it’s your civil service

your police force your social security your intelligence

agencies it’s all for your protection and wellbeing we

only have your interests at heart we are your

representatives we are here only to protect and serve

after all you have done nothing wrong and you have

no reason to be afraid. So why am I so,so afraid?

The Saint

Some said he was a saint, even though he did not

believe in God. Others said, how could a man who

doesn’t believe in God be a saint? But his supporters

said that if he had believed in God he would just be an

ordinary man doing what God told him, not a saint

acting according to his own inner voices. He blessed

the people, taught them how to pray and made them

go to confession. He gave them hope in the middle of

despair and peace in times of trouble. He told them

that even though he did not believe in God, they

should. He taught them about the soul, and its journey

beyond death into a new and better life. This

comforted the people and the saint’s endless wisdom

and compassion made them stronger as it made him

weaker. When he died the people asked the church to

recognise him as a true saint. But the church said a true

saint would never be so selfless in looking after other

people. A true saint would only be concerned with his

own personal salvation. And, anyway, he had not

believed in God.

The Cellar

I don’t go in the cellar very often. The staircase down is

just wooden planks; very steep with no bannister, so I’m

already nervous by the time I get to the bottom. There’s

a bare light bulb hanging down in the middle of the

ceiling, with one of those light pulls made of little metal

beads. The bulb swings when you pull it and the pool of

light swirls round on the earth floor, which makes me

feel dizzy. The light doesn’t reach into the corner of the

room, even though I did put in a bigger bulb. I took a

torch down there once to look in the corners but I

didn’t much like what I saw.

Congratulations

“Hi, it’s me. I just wanted to give you the good news

and say congratulations. I know it may be a bit

premature and the starting pistol hasn’t gone off yet,

but the fat lady is definitely about to sing and the

whole thing really feels like it’s about to take off in a

big way – finally, after all this time and effort from all of

us, seems like years and years; I can’t even remember

a time when we weren’t all waiting and hoping –

praying even; I think I did actually say a prayer once,

not down on bended knee or anything but definitely

eyes shut and talking to a higher power, if any, but

nothing to lose, Pascal’s wager etc. but now it looks as

if the plan has finally come together and all the hard

work has paid off at last, our time has come, our day in

the sun, every dog has its day and so on, so let’s get

out there and celebrate.”

Much Taller

No, not like that. Much taller. Thin and kind of gaunt -

looking with sunken cheeks and dark stubble. And the

eyes were bigger and darker – staring but blank at the

same time, if that makes any sense. Not that any of it

makes any sense.

The Sea

I don’t want to write anything today. I’d rather just sit

and look out at the sea. The tide is out but there’s

nobody on the beach apart from one man in black

splashing in the shallows. There are usually some people

walking their dogs at this time of the morning, but not

today. There is a yellow buoy just out to sea. It wasn’t

there until a few weeks ago but now there is a line of

them, all the same distance out. I don’t know what

they’re for. There was a very small yacht earlier, but it’s

gone now. And the man in the orange canoe is here

again, like most days. It’s a bit cloudy today with very

little wind, so the patterns the clouds make change

very slowly, like a moving abstract painting. When the

wind is higher the cloud patterns change very fast, and

the seagulls just hover, sometimes even seeming to fly

backwards, but today they are having to flap their

wings to stay up. While I’ve been watching the tide has

come in so now all I can see is the sea.

Well See

Well see the thing of it is this is the thing if I’d known if I’d

known then back then back when before it was too

late before it actually happened if only someone had

given me some kind of warning just given me a hint at

least just to let me know just so I could have been

prepared had some time to prepare knowing what was

coming what was about to happen what was coming

down the line if I knew what was about to hit me had

some advance notice I mean forewarned is forearmed

and so on you know once bitten twice shy as they say

be prepared at least I could have been prepared for it

mentally at least mentally prepared got my mind in the

right place got my head round it got myself on top of

the situation at least to some extent to some small

degree at least even if only that much even to have

been a little bit ahead of the game kept on top of the

ball tried at least for heaven’s sake to give the

appearance I knew what the hell was happening not

look completely taken by surprise taken aback not look

such an idiot such a complete fool not have looked like

some kind of moron for goodness sake I mean what did

they expect what could they possibly have expected

under the circumstances if nobody told me nobody

bothered to fill me in or bring me up to speed with what

was going on how was I supposed to know what do

they think I am psychic do they think I can read minds

or something do I have a crystal ball can I see the

future is that what they think or were they just keeping

me in the dark on purpose maybe they wanted me to

look stupid maybe they wanted someone to take the

blame the fall guy the scapegoat well not me not me

forget that I’m not going to take a bullet in the chest

take one for the team put my head above the parapet

and wave my arms around shouting hey look at me

look at me do I look that stupid do I look like the kind of

guy to stick around and just wait for the shit to hit the

fan to sit around while they decide whose fault it all is

who carries the can who sweeps up the mess it's their

mess not mine no not me they can get someone else if

that’s what they really want.

Carousel

The luggage is going round on the carousel and one by

one the passengers drag their cases off and walk away

with them. It was the last flight in and it’s nearly

midnight. Finally I’m the only person left in the baggage

hall and there’s just one bag left going round and

round. It looks like my bag but it’s not my bag.

Like Watching Paint Dry

I like watching paint dry; it’s very soothing. It’s not like

watching grass grow, which is really boring. When paint

is wet it’s shiny and as it dries it turns matt. Unless it’s

gloss paint. The shiny and the matt patches form

shifting patterns like an abstract expressionist painting

that changes all the time, or like clouds moving slowly

across the sky. Sometimes you can see faces or animals

in the patterns like you can in the flames of a fire or on

the marble tiles in a hotel bathroom, but you have to

watch closely or you miss them; paint actually dries

very fast. Unless it’s gloss paint.

Sugar

The Japanese interpreter introduced herself. “My name

is Sato. Sato is most common name in Japan. It means .

. . sugar. So if you forget my name you can call me . . .

sugar.” Pause. “But not . . . honey.” Japanese women

hide their teeth behind their hand when they laugh.

My Point

But that’s my point my point exactly that’s what I’ve

been saying been trying to say all along right from the

beginning right from the start this is what I’ve been

saying again and again over and over consistently time

after time like a broken record like I was stuck on

repeat saying it over and over just trying to get

someone to listen just listen to my point of view give me

at least a hearing my day in court just a fair crack of

the whip a moment in the spotlight with me all the time

being like a kid in class always putting her hand up

going me sir me sir just trying to grab some attention

trying to get a hearing bursting at the seams with

something to say something big and really really

important to say and this time knowing she’s the one

who’s right who sees the answer she’s one the only one

who gets the point who can see through all the lies see

through all the bullshit see the false trails and red

herrings for what they are avoid the traps and the tricks

and see the way out of the maze see the way through

the fog the right course to steer the light at the back of

the cave that shows the way out into the daylight and

shout hey this way over here I’ve found it here it is this is

it just listen to me come to me and I’ll show you what it

all means show you the way to go the way forward the

right answer the only answer and I’m the one the one

who found it all you have to do is listen to me really

listen hear what I have to say understand what I’m

saying but no you wouldn’t listen to me would you no

one ever listens to me no one ever has listened to me

not for a second not for an instant no one ever even

noticed me noticed I was there acknowledged my

existence even just ignored me overlooked me

pretended I wasn’t even there well you’ll all have to

listen to me now.

Platonism

“What’s the name of that game where you have to

answer a question with a question?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Do you know what it’s called or not?”

“Do you mean Platonism?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“How would I know?”

“Why did you say Platonism then?”

“Why ask me then?”

“Why shouldn’t I ask you?”

“Don’t you have anyone else to ask?”

“Why should I ask someone else?”

“But why pick on me?”

“Why not?”

“Why?”

“Who else should I ask?”

“How would I know who else you know?”

“Don’t you think you know all my friends?”

“How many friends have you got?”

“Just you.”

“Hah.”

Staff Announcement

Staff announcement: In order to further reduce

operating expenses and to comply with current

environmental regulations, the light at the end of the

tunnel has been switched off until further notice.

Yellow Light

Walking back to the car I notice that it’s parked under

a lamp post in a cone of flickering yellow light. I hadn’t

noticed the lamp post when I parked but that was in

the daylight. Then I see that there are no other cars

around it. And no buildings or people. No road even.

Just the car under the yellow light. Then suddenly, as I

get close to the car the light goes out and there’s

nothing.

Oh No

Oh no you don’t not this time not on this one this time I

draw the line I really do this is the last straw a bridge too

far this is it no question no argument I’m just not having

it after all I’ve been through all I’ve done everything

I’ve put up with all these years all I’ve suffered all the

times I just stood back and said nothing stayed in the

background keeping quiet biting my tongue never

saying anything just letting it happen without even a

single word never standing in the way or standing up to

be counted never being difficult being a nuisance or

causing trouble just laying down like a rug for everyone

to walk all over in their muddy boots trampling over my

wishes over my objections not that I ever made my

objections heard or shared my feelings on any of those

occasions all those times when I thought no let it go let

it pass it’s not worth it not worth the effort to get

involved and have all that aggravation all the fretting

and stress all the worry it’s better to just sit back and say

nothing not get involved just let it all wash over me just

watch what’s happening and see them tripping up

making fools of themselves and each other but this

time they’re not going to make a fool of me oh no.

Safety Briefing

Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking. I

would like to welcome you on board and ask that you

give your full attention to the safety briefing even if you

are a frequent flier and you think you have heard it all

before. In the pocket of the seat in front of you you will

find a card showing the position you must adopt if you

hear the words “brace, brace”. This position puts your

head below the level of the seat in front, which may

save your life because when a plane crashes the

luggage racks burst apart and the luggage flies

towards you at 200mph which would take your head

clean off if it was sticking up. The cabin crew will be OK

as they sit with their backs to the bulkhead which is the

only safe place to be. You should ignore any

instructions the crew give you as they all hate their jobs

and resent the passengers and will take any chance

they can to get back at you. They will tell you that your

seat belt should be fastened for take - off and landing.

Not just fastened but securely fastened, whatever that

means. Frankly this is really stupid. If a 747 crashes just

after take - off it will have 100 tons of fuel and will

instantly turn into a huge fireball. Your only chance of

survival is to get out through one of the holes in the

broken plane in the first 3 seconds; your seat belt will

prevent this. And if you’re not in an aisle seat you have

no chance anyway. In the event of sudden

depressurisation in the cabin, oxygen masks are

supposed to magically appear from the panel above

your head. As if. And if they did appear they would be

completely useless as the pilot would immediately have

gone into a steep dive and within seconds the plane

will be at an altitude where you can breathe normally.

If the depressurisation was caused by a door blowing

out or an explosion you will in any case be sucked out

of the hole unless you have your seat belt fastened, in

which case you will be fine. A plane once landed in

Hawaii with its top ripped off like an open topped bus

and everyone with a seat belt on was OK. On the other

hand a Japanese woman was killed while not wearing

a seat belt during turbulence when the plane suddenly

dropped and she shot out of her seat and banged her

head on the luggage rack. Did I mention always to sit

in an aisle seat? In the event of a landing on water a

life jacket is provided under your seat. This is purely to

make you feel better; no one has ever survived a plane

crash by wearing a life vest. Planes don’t land on

water, they crash into it. A big plane like this one stalls

at 180mph and at that speed water is very much like

concrete. The plane will break up as it hits the water

and if you survive the impact you have a couple of

seconds to swim out of the hole before the plane sinks.

Planes don’t float on water. when they’re in two

pieces. If the pilot is really good he may be able to

keep the plane level as it lands but if the wing tip

touches the water the plane will flip and you will be

upside down. You can’t unfasten a seat belt when

you’re upside down and your weight is on it. So

remember to unfasten it just before any landing and

get your head down. Only once in the whole of

aviation history has a pilot landed safely in water and

saved all the passengers; don’t bet on it happening

again. I apologise if I’ve made you nervous at all but

please remember that flying is thousands of times safer

than driving and that, although there are millions of

bad drivers there are no bad pilots, just good ones and

dead ones. So, since I’m one of the good ones I would

like to thank you for travelling with us and invite you to

sit back, have a pleasant flight and enjoy the inflight

entertainment.

Just Weird

“That’s just weird”

“I kind of like it”

“You can’t possibly like it”

“No, I do”

“You only ever like things no one else likes”

“I just have different taste to most people”

“You couldn’t like this if you had any kind of taste at all”

“Maybe I just see things differently”

“There’s no different way to see this”

“I march to the beat of a different drummer”

“You’re just weird”

Graveyard Shift

In the local churchyard they took out all the

gravestones and moved them to the edges. They

stacked them against the walls four or five deep. I hope

they made a map of their positions before they moved

them so they know who you’re walking over when you

walk through it. The headstones look like CDs stacked in

racks in a music shop; you feel as if you could just flick

through them and pick the one you liked. Or they

could be playing cards leaning against a glass on a

table. Pick a card, any card. You can’t read what’s on

the card before you pick it as it’s hidden by the ones in

front, but the card you pick will determine your fate.

This may be a metaphor for something or I may just

have dreamt it.

There’s Nobody Like You Left

I don’t think it knows I’m here. I’m crouched down low

enough not to be seen – I’ve figured out the exact

angle of sight – and I’ve trained my breathing to be

really slow and shallow so I don’t make any sound. As

long as I can stay completely still it won’t be able to

detect me. After a while it switches itself off. It’s

supposed to be completely silent but there’s a tiny click

when it goes into standby and the very faint humming

noise stops. Once it’s in standby it takes just over half a

second to fully power up again. So that’s how long I’ll

have to leap at it and grab it from behind to stop it

moving. Then I can disable it permanently. One more

down and who knows how many still to go. So many of

them and, as far as I know, only one of us left.

Jumper

Floating, bloated in river reeds, but the river doesn’t

know.

Carcass on which fish can feed, but the river doesn’t

care.

Jumping in the empty dark, but the river doesn’t see.

Snuffing out the sputtering spark, but the river doesn’t

stop.

Jewellery tightening on swollen limbs, but the river

doesn’t hear.

Pretty face now red, raw, grim, but the river doesn’t

appreciate.

Young, promising, gifted they said, but the river doesn’t

understand.

Too beautiful, too lovely to end up dead, but the river

doesn’t judge.

Foreimagined wounded pride, but the river doesn’t

reject.

Mortified, indignified, but the river flows on.

The river flows on. The river flows on.

The Night of Our Lives

It was the night of our lives it was the light of our lives it

was the night of long knives it was the day of reckoning

it was the future beckoning and the beating of drums

told the nightmare to come there was blood on the

sheets there were cracks in the streets there was blood

on the pillows there was sand in the willows and the

woods were on fire like a funeral pyre there were holes

in the sky there were nails through the eye the bells

rang and rang as the choirboys sang occult sermons

were read there were prayers for the dead and the

mad dogs were howling and the wolves kept on

prowling the peacocks were crying the vultures were

flying the trees were ablaze all the houses were razed

the grey ash rained down as it buried the town the

ground was all white and the air was alight the bodies

burned bright as they lit up the night the attacks never

ceased the attacks just increased the arteries bled and

the rivers turned red and we fled through the sky with

cold black rimmed eyes all the clouds dripped with

blood on the ground where we stood and we all

screamed out why as the rocks thundered by the

cockroaches scattered as the ceiling beams shattered

and the roofs all crashed down with a deafening sound

and the walls fell around as they all crumbled down

and the children all screamed as they woke from their

dreams daggers like hailstones bright shining whale

bones the ocean retreated rejected, defeated and the

waves crashed on shore with a deafening roar and the

earth was submerged as the nightmares emerged the

bodies of the drowned were piled up in great mounds

and low muffled moans came from mountains of bones

and the snakes thread their heads through the eyes of

the dead the forked lightning cracked as the monkeys

ran back the neon light flashed as the helicopters

crashed and the night was ablaze with a shimmering

haze the yellow dust swirled round the trembling world

the bright orange glow lit the cackling crows and the

flies swarmed in packs as they turned the sky black and

although the night ended the scars never mended the

blood won’t congeal and the wounds never heal and

the memory burns as the visions return we could never

explain and now nothing remains we will never again

feel the blood fall like rain on the light of our lives on the

night of our lives.

The Rapture

The other day was one of those when the world as we

know it was supposed to end. Not one of the ones

where everything goes up in smoke or where a nuclear

apocalypse in the Middle East brings Armageddon. This

was the one where Jesus comes back to earth and

takes all the good people back to heaven in an

operation called the Rapture. The date and exact time

had been worked out by a man looking about 100

years old who had spent decades working it out from

clues he had found encoded in the Bible. Most people

dismissed the warning, especially as the event was set

to happen, not all at one time but separately in each

time zone around the world, which didn’t seem right; it

would presumably have to start in Greenwich Mean

Time (or perhaps British Summer Time; it wasn’t clear

whether the Bible had taken account of daylight

saving) and moved westward around the world an

hour at a time. Or would it have started in the time

zone of the biblical lands? No one seemed sure, so it

was hard to take it seriously. However, many people

did believe it was going to happen, especially in

America. Businesses sprang up offering to look after

pets left behind by their owners who had been so good

in life they would be personally collected by Jesus (pets

apparently not being allowed in heaven). The date

and time of the predicted event came and went and

nothing happened. No one disappeared in a flash of

white light. Obviously some people were very

disappointed (though their pets would presumably

have been happy) but most people weren’t a bit

surprised and dismissed the prediction as the work of a

crank. But suppose he was right? Suppose Jesus really

had come to earth looking for good people and just

couldn’t find any?

Distant Drums

The distant rumble of the distant drums and the distant

thunder of the distant guns and it isn’t any wonder that

the world’s going under with the sharpening of knives

and the waste of all our lives always rising to the bait of

the politics of hate from just looking at the fate and the

state of the estates we were written off from birth never

given any worth never given the attention never worth

a second mention just kept holding in detention on

suspicion of sedition and the sins of all the fathers all the

absent father figures disappearing from the schools

driven out by all the rules the official paranoia all

backed up by all their lawyers all the joy gone out of

teaching through the government by preaching and

the sermons handed down from the wisdom of a clown

and the government by fear and the government by

peers the assumption of your guilt in the prison that they

built to hold all the population of this tiny island nation

by restraining all the passion with their latest passing

passion and their most important mission is to get

complete submission by repression of expression and

requiring your confession and the passing of their tests

just designed to see who’s best at remembering and

repeating and at copying and cheating and the

beating and defeating of protestors by arresters

freedom of thought can be easily bought and obeying

is just taught by a sentence from the court as the dead

wood is in power at this critical hour and the cctv is all

pointing at me when all movements are tracked and

all systems are hacked all the privacy ceases as

surveillance increases and the eyes in the sky show the

lies in their eyes and the bodies pile high as the rivers

run dry as the earth chokes to death with its very last

breath and the voters just don’t count as the violence

just mounts and the state just interferes with my hopes

and all my fears and they get inside my head and

pursue me till I’m dead as the government just meddles

and the lies that it still peddles get reported like they’re

facts so that no one will react so that no one ever acts

on their permanent attacks and so nobody cares and

so nobody dares and so everyone stares at celebrity

affairs and at meaningless trash and at lottery cash just

staring without blinking is much easier than thinking and

computer game distraction is much easier than action

and the children all get fooled by the lies they hear in

school but we never can preserve what we never have

deserved so there’s no place left for fun and there’s no

time in the sun and there’s nowhere left to run from the

thunder of the guns

The Map of Your Life

You can draw a map of your life. Take a map of the

area where you live and mark, in one colour, all the

places your friends live. In other colours put dots on all

the places you’ve worked, where the people you’ve

dated lived, places you’ve been drunk, had sex and so

on for all the important events of your life. Then the

question is: if you had started this map in your teens,

what age will you be when you stop adding new dots?

Maybe you have already stopped. At what age could

you join up the dots and say: this was me, this was my

life?

Crawlspace

There’s what they call a crawlspace under the house.

It’s a wooden house, covered in clapboard, with a

porch on the front that has a view down the hill and

across to the forest. It’s nice to sit on the porch and just

watch the trees moving. The house is built on wooden

stilts that go deep into the ground so that even at the

back it doesn’t quite touch the ground. This is so that

the house doesn’t get flooded or slip down the hill in a

mudslide. It also helps keep out snakes and bugs. Under

the house is just earth. It’s always damp and musty,

even after a long dry summer. I never go into the

crawlspace, it’s too damp to store anything and even

at the front it’s not high enough even to kneel. You

really would have to crawl, and I don’t have any

reason to. So the only way I saw them in the first place

was when I heard a noise under the house one night. I

thought it was just some small animal got stuck, so I

didn’t do anything about it until the next morning. I got

down flat on the ground with a torch to look. I didn’t

know what to expect but I certainly wasn’t prepared

for what was actually under there. I don’t know who

was more startled, me or them. I jumped straight up,

ran back in the house and locked the door. I sat there

for hours, shaking and not knowing what to do. It was

dead quiet underneath so I thought maybe they had

gone or maybe they were as scared as me. Eventually I

got the shotgun out of the case and went back down

very slowly and quietly to look again. They were still

there, looking at me with those big eyes, if you can call

them eyes. They didn’t look as if they meant any harm,

they were even quite cute in a weird kind of way. I

don’t know how many there are, whether they’re all

one family, or even if they have families as we know

them. I don’t even know what they live on. If they do

need to eat I suppose there are lots of worms and bugs

down there. They never seem to come out, so the dark

and damp must suit them. And I often wonder how

they got there and where on earth (or wherever else)

they came from. They do seem to communicate with

each other in some kind of language; I can sometimes

hear a high - pitched chattering sound, but whenever

they know I’m there they stop and just look at me. I

don’t know how to describe the look but it seems to be

kind and well - meaning. They certainly don’t seem to

want to hurt me and they keep themselves to

themselves. So there they still are, I don’t bother them

and they don’t bother me. And when I’m sitting by

myself on the porch they’re kind of company in a

strange way.

Lost Meaning

In the middle of the desert is a cave, or rather, there

was a cave; it filled with sand and disappeared

centuries ago. Inside the hidden cave are scrolls on

which the secret of life is written, the answers to all the

questions mankind asks about the world. The dryness of

the desert has preserved the scrolls perfectly but the

cave is lost without trace and the scrolls will never be

found. No one even knows they exist, or ever existed, so

no one will look for them. Even if the scrolls were

accidentally found no one would be able to decipher

the lost script they are written in let alone translate their

lost language. And in any case if the scrolls were

exposed to the air they would disintegrate

immediately. We think we know so much but we have

forgotten more than we have learned. We have even

forgotten what it is that we have forgotten.

Entrances to Hell

There are entrances to hell everywhere. Dark doorways,

hidden cellars, dark tunnels. People photograph them

and post them on websites as a warning to others. But

they are mistaken. The doorways, cellars and tunnels

are not in the outside world, they are in your own head.

You put them there and one day, when you are not

looking, you will enter one of them.